


See You in Court

by nightimedreamer



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Crime Scenes, Dragon! Simon, Investigations, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Rivals to Lovers, Vampire Clubs, very loosely inspired by Ace Attorney AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightimedreamer/pseuds/nightimedreamer
Summary: Simon Snow and Basilton Pitch have always been rivals—since their days at Watford, then at Magickal Law School; now, in court.One, a young, promising prosecutor. The other, a defence attorney dedicated to saving innocent dark creatures (like himself).Now they must face each other once again in a negligence trial, working to gather more evidence and get to the bottom of a seemingly simple case—except nothing is as it seems.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 34
Kudos: 53
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/gifts).



> Finally, here's my fic for the CO server's Secret Snowflake ❄️
> 
> Dear NineMagicks,  
> I was so thrilled to be able to make a gift for you! It was in equal parts exciting and scary, because a) I like you a lot, and b) I admire you so much as a writer. At first I tricked myself into thinking that writing this would be easy, because I'd love to write something for you!! But I also wanted it to be good (i.e. perfect), because that's what you deserve. 
> 
> (As of now, this is still not completely written, and I apologise for that. I hope to finish writing as soon as I can, though!) 
> 
> You asked for an Ace Attorney AU, and I, unfortunately, have never watched or played Ace Attorney. So this is more of a "regular attorneys" AU, just slightly unrealistic. But I did my best to include Dragon!Simon, a (somewhat) epic rivalry, a bit of pining, a sprinkle of fluff. I really, really hope you like it!! ❤️

#  `Initial Trial transcript - Case n° 6061 - State of Magick : London County `

* * *

` State of Magick, `

` Plaintiff `

`vs.`

`Lamb, `

` Defendant`

* * *

` **Date** : February 12, 2025 `

` **Before** : Athanasius — Circuit Court Judge `

` **Appearances** : `

`SIMON S. SALISBURY`

`Special Prosecutor`

`On behalf of the State of Magick`

`PENELOPE J. BUNCE`

`Special Prosecutor`

`On behalf of the State of Magick`

`TYRANNUS B. GRIMM-PITCH `

`Attorney at law`

`On behalf of the Defendant`

`NIALL A. KELLEY`

`Attorney at law`

`On behalf of the Defendant`

**` Transcript of proceedings: ` **

`Reportedd by Philippa Stainton, `

`Official court reporter`

* * *

`(Jury present) `

` THE COURT: At this time the court calls State of Magick vs. "Lamb" case n.6061. We’re here this morning to initiate the trial. Will the parties state their appearances for record, please. `

`ATTORNEY SALISBURY: Good morning, your Honor, the State of Magick appears represented by me, Assistant Attorney General Simon Snow, and District Attorney Penelope Bunce as special prosecutors. `

`ATTORNEY PITCH: Good morning, your Honor. Attorneys Basilton Pitch and Niall Kelley appear with Mr. Lamb, the defendant. `

`THE COURT: Very well. Is there anything any of the parties would like to bring to the court’s attention before we begin?`

`ATTORNEY SALISBURY: No, your Honor. `

`ATTORNEY PITCH: Nothing, your Honor. `

`THE COURT: All right, you may sit down. Mr. Salisbury, are you going to be questioning the State’s first witness? `

`ATTORNEY SALISBURY: Yes, your Honor. `

`THE COURT: You may call your witness. `

`ATTORNEY SALISBURY: The State calls witness Trixie Evans. `

**` Special witness Trixie Evans, ` ** `called as a witness herein, was examined and testified as follows: `

`THE CLERK: Can you state your name, please?`

`THE WITNESS: Trixie Evans. `

`THE CLERK: Please state your magickal status. `

`THE WITNESS: I'm ⅛ pixie, and a Speaker.`

**` Direct examination` **

`BY ATTORNEY SALISBURY: `

`Q. How often do you frequent the vampire club known as "Lamb's Blood"? `

`A. Not really often. I'm not really into vampires, and also, I've got a girlfriend. `

`Q. ... Right. Was it you who found the body in question? `

`A. Yes. `

`Q. Can you specify the time you found it?`

`A. It was around six in the morning, I guess. I was on my way to work when I came across… her. I called the police immediately.`

`Q. Good. Was there any suspicious activity next to the crime scene?`

`A. Nothing that comes to mind. `

`Q. Do you have any reason to believe that the crime scene was altered before the police got there?`

`A. Oh, well, I’m really not an expert in these things, but there was a puddle of vomit on the pavement. `

`Q. And did you know the victim before the incident? `

`A. No, I didn't know her. `

`Q. Had you ever seen her, though? At the club, perhaps. `

`ATTORNEY PITCH: Objection, leading.`

`THE COURT: Sustained. `

`Q. Let me reformulate the question. Had you ever seen the victim before that day?`

`A. Not that I can recall. `

* * *

**Special Prosecutor Simon S. Salisbury**

Every trial against Basilton Pitch is a tricky dance through an obstacle course, and we’re both doing our best to trip each other up. This one is no exception.

Basil is the same in court as he is everywhere else: sharp-tongued, quick-witted and fucking ruthless. He doesn't lend me a moment of peace. Every time I open my mouth, he's already got three or four objections right at the tip of his tongue, ready to cut me off.

Today’s session is almost over, thank Merlin almighty, because if I have to endure another one of Baz’s smug smirks thrown in my direction, I might lose control and do something that will get my license impeached. 

We’re at the end of a long line of useless witnesses, most of which _did not_ witness anything at all. Trixie, the woman who found the body, was, by far, the most promising, and even she couldn’t give either of us anything concrete to work with. 

It’s finally time to examine the defendant himself. 

“Exhibit 42B,” I start the presentation, looking back briefly over my shoulder, “this is a series of photographs taken on the crime scene, as it was when the police first arrived. Please take a look at them, Mr Lamb. Can you tell me if this scenery is familiar to you?” 

“Objection,” Baz calls from his seat. I roll my eyes. It must be the hundredth time he interrupts me. 

“Sustained,” Judge Athanasius concedes, frowning at me. “What are you trying to insinuate, Mr Salisbury?”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “I’m not insinuating anything, your Honor. I merely asked Mr Lamb about the composition of the scene—which is similar, if you ask _me,_ to the scenes of at least five other murders that occurred in the last semester.” 

“Objection,” Baz repeats, coolly as usual, not even bothering to get up. “As far as I’m concerned, _you’re_ not the defendant, _nor_ a witness in this case, Mr Salisbury, so giving your opinion is an extremely leading attitude.” 

“Sustained. If you have something to say about the exhibits, Mr Salisbury, please tell the jurors instead of asking the witness.”

I nod. I don’t even need to look back to know that Penelope is facepalming. “Of course, your Honor.” 

I clear my throat, then, going on with the presentation. This whole series of photographs would hardly be accepted as an exhibit in a Normal trial. However, this court is as far from Normal as California is from England, so I doubt anyone is really concerned about the gruesome nature of the pictures. 

“This is Evelyn Bailey, as everyone here already knows,” I start with the latest victim, a twenty-something woman from London. Cause of death: lethal injuries to the neck. “Normal; wasn’t reported missing. We collected testimonies from family and friends, attesting that she was last seen the night before her murder.” 

I skip to the next picture: another Normal, different injury, but equally lethal. “George Lewis. Found dead just two weeks ago, less than three blocks away from the place where Evelyn’s body was found. And so on.” 

I keep skipping slides, laying out each case before the jurors. I look back, once, to gauge Basil’s expression. He’s serious, the smugness finally wiped from his face. 

I hold back a smile of satisfaction. 

“At this moment, I would like to remind the Jury that Mr Lamb is being charged of negligence. All five of these murders—six, now—happened in the vicinity of the vampire club he owns, known as the _Lamb’s Blood.”_ I turn to the defendant, then. “Are you aware of these facts, Mr Lamb?”

Lamb—who I happen to know is a bloody bastard—answers calmly, a relaxed smile on his face. “Calling those statements _facts_ seems a bit much to me, but yes, I am aware of the charges.” 

I grit my teeth. Now is definitely not the time to lose my composure—it’s obvious Baz prepared him well for this. As usual. 

“Very well. Anyway, can you please tell the Jury about the nature of your establishment?” 

“Of course,” the defendant nods, still looking too relaxed for someone sitting on the witness box. “The _Lamb’s Blood_ is one of its kind—a club for vampires that also admits Normals, Speakers and whoever else wants to attend it.” He sounds like a proper businessman; probably trying to get more clients out of the Jury. I refrain from rolling my eyes. “What my clients are up to doesn’t interest me, nor this court, as there are several discretion clauses in our contracts. However,” he looks directly at me, “every Normal client agrees to have the most sordid details wiped from their memory afterwards, to protect the secrecy of our world. And all of our clients are not only aware of, but also _welcome_ the possibility of a bit of blood drinking.” The vampire smirks, charming. “It’s part of the appeal of a vampire club, I suppose. All in conformity with the law.” 

“Are there any precautions taken to avoid… _accidents?_ Excessive blood drinking, for example.” 

Lamb smiles his businessman smile again. “Of course. First of all, we don’t admit thirsty vampires. We also make sure to check our clients’ blood pressure constantly, to make sure no one is too close to a dangerous limit.” 

“Very good,” I nod. “And what about the biting? Isn’t it dangerous as well? How can you make sure no one will end up Turned accidentally?” 

“Objection, compound,” Baz calls out again, and the Judge sustains it. I groan internally. 

“Right. Please answer only my last question, Mr Lamb.”

He shrugs. “That isn’t something that happens by _accident,_ young man. Are you sure these are the questions you should be asking?” 

I splutter for a moment, struggling to get a grip on myself. I’ve got a card with at least a dozen of other questions, all meticulously thought and formulated, but there’s no way I’m going to stop to check my notes like a grad student. _Not in front of Baz._

“Cat got your tongue, Salisbury?” Baz calls out behind me, earning some snorts from the Jury. I know he didn’t speak with magic, but the way I struggle to come up with words feels very much like the spell’s effects. 

“I’m not finished, Mr Ptch,” I say, not turning to look at him. 

The question is on the tip of my tongue, I just need to get it out. 

I think I’m starting to smoke. 

**Defence Attorney T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch**

Smoke wafts off Snow in waves, quickly filling the courtroom. Which is exactly the effect I was trying to get. 

Usually, my strategy to win doesn’t involve trying to suffocate the Jurors, but Snow is just too easy to rile up. A witty remark here, a few objections there and he’s already smoking like a wildfire. Sometimes, I think the only reason why they let him into a courtroom at all is interspecies solidarity. 

Some people are coughing, helplessly waving their hands in the thickening cloud of smoke. 

I can’t help but smirk. I am one of two people unaffected by this. I’ve roomed with the menace that is Simon Snow for years during our time at Watford, and then we attended the same Magickal Law School (not that there's more than one.) I’ve known him for over half of my life. I’m more than used to his fits and tantrums. 

It's astounding how things have barely changed between us over the years, save for a few crucial details. We've fallen in an almost comfortable routine, inside and outside of court. Snow is still the same mess he's always been, while I am a bit less of a self-loathing bastard. 

(This is just the logical outcome for us, I suppose. Snow becomes the prosecution's golden dragon, while I play devil's advocate. It's fitting.) 

The one other person completely unbothered by the smoke is Judge Athanasius—though, considering he’s a dragon as well, that’s to be expected.

Actually, a rather large part of the magickal legal system is composed of dragons. Common sense is that it has something to do with how noble and selfless they are (Snow himself is living proof of that.) If someone were to ask me for my opinion, though, I'd say it's because dragons couldn’t care less about power. Some of them are as old—and _as big—_ as mountains; they’re perfectly impartial when it comes to matters of the magickal world simply because we’re comparable to insects in their eyes. 

(Well, with the notable exception that is Simon Snow.) (Though that’s probably because he was raised by Mages, so he still lacks that innate sense of superiority.)

Lamb pulls out a handkerchief, unceremoniously covering his nose with it (I warned him about this), and continues to answer every question Snow throws at him. 

“So what happens is merely _ethic_ blood-drinking?” Snow asks, and I scowl at his back. 

“Well, yes,” Lamb answers, his tone edging towards boredom. “All blood-drinking is consensual—you can take a look at our contract, if that’s relevant for the case. Every client must sign before entering the establishment.” 

“And is there any policy to prevent vampires from leaving the establishment with someone else?” 

Lamb thinks about it for a moment, his eyes flicking over to me. I can’t say anything, but I know what Snow is getting at, though he won’t be getting too far with it. 

“I reckon that what my clients get up to outside of the club is not my business,” Lamb finally answers, calmly. I warned him against Snow: usually, his main tactic is to be aggressive, subtly (or not) intimidating the witness, trying (and _failing)_ to cause them to slip, to get some kind of advantage. 

“So, what you’re saying is that any vampire can leave to a second location, accompanied or not, and there’s no way to control what happens then?”

“Precisely.” 

“Don’t you think that’s neglectful, Mr Lamb? Incidents like the deaths that happened these past months—”

“Objection, leading.” I cut him off. 

Snow looks back at me, briefly, his eyebrows pinched up. “I’m just saying that any vampire could drag someone into an alley—” 

_“Objection!”_

“Sustained.” Judge Athanasius slams his gravel down, the striking sound silencing Snow. “No need to reply to these statements, Mr Lamb.” 

Lamb nods, the ghost of a smile creeping across his face. He’s obviously trying to hold it back. 

I don’t. I let a smirk take over my face, knowing everyone’s eyes are trained on Snow, expecting the oncoming fit, while _his_ eyes are trained on _me._

“Right. I believe that’s all, for now, Mr Lamb.” Snow nods to the Judge, then retreats back to his seat. 

I get up and start the cross-examination. 

“Good morning, Mr Lamb. Could you please tell the Jury about your establishment’s stellar record in the last six years?” 

Lamb nods. “Of course. The club opened merely six years ago—the first, and to this day the only, of its kind in Britain. There have been small incidents here and there, nothing serious. No one’s ever been Turned under my roof, nor have any deaths occurred.” 

Snow clears his throat, loudly, interrupting him. “Excuse me, lets not forget about the six deaths that happened in the span of six months—how is that a _stellar_ record, Mr Lamb?” 

_“Objection,”_ I sneer at him. “Please don’t interrupt my client, Salisbury.” 

The Judge stares at me, inquiringly. “What are you objecting to, Mr Pitch?” 

“Argumentative, your Honor.” 

“Sustained.” he slams his gavel down, the striking sound silencing Snow. “Please, continue, Mr Lamb.” 

“Very well. As I was saying, no deaths have taken place in my establishment.” He looks pointedly at Simon, who’s still literally fuming. 

“All right. Do you keep track of the people who frequent your club, Mr Lamb?” 

“Yes. In fact, we keep copies of every contract, and also lists of attendance for every night.”

“Good,” I say. “At this moment, I would like to present exhibit 752D,” I walk up to the Judge, handing him a folder. “These are the aforementioned documents—a copy of the contract Bailey signed, and the club’s list of attendance on the night prior to her death.” While Athanasius goes through the papers, I turn to the rest of the court. “Evelyn Bailey was, in fact, a regular at the Lamb’s Blood, but—” I pause, just to add to the dramatic effect, “—as you can see, your Honor, she didn’t attend the club on the night of her death.” 

As the Judge nods, humming in accordance, Snow gets up from his seat, shouting _“objection”,_ his face starting to get red. 

“We weren’t told about this exhibit, your Honor,” he sputters. “We ask that these documents do not be accepted as evidence.” 

I raise an eyebrow at him, in that way I know drives him mad. “Copies of these documents were sent to you, Salisbury. I forwarded the documents to you myself.”

He sputters some more, frantically going through the documents and folders scattered in front of him. Hushed whispers pass between him and Bunce, until, finally, Snow stops to examine one of the papers more carefully. 

He looks up at me, sheepishly. “Still, I object to the use of these documents as evidence, your Honor.” 

I all but scoff at him. “Under what reasoning, Salisbury?” 

“Leave the questioning to me, Mr Pitch.” The Judge says, his tone scolding. I quickly apologise. “Explain yourself, Mr Salisbury.” 

“Right. Well.” Simon stares at the papers for a moment, resolve forming on his face. Strong jaw jutting out in show of defiance. “I believe that these documents could be easily manipulated, your Honor; thus, they’re not suitable as an exhibit.” 

I look at the Judge, who simply nods at me. “Your counterpoint, Mr Pitch?” 

“These contracts are sealed with magic, your Honor,” I answer, coldly, still holding Snow’s gaze. “They can’t be altered.” 

“Does the magic work on Normals, though?” Snow inquires, stubbornly. 

“Yes. You do know that Normals are well acquainted with the concept of contracts, don’t you, Salisbury?” I ask, scathingly. 

Snow opens his mouth like he’s about to object, but I doubt that _condescending_ is a reason for that. So, instead, he just pushes onward. “And what about the list? How can you guarantee that no names have been erased?” 

“Each list is generated by the end of the day,” I say. “Or, rather, by the morning. Either way, these lists are printed and kept in Mr Lamb’s office. He’s the only person who has access to them, and virtual copies are sent to their legal representatives. Who is, in this case, Mr Kelley over there.” 

Niall nods at us, and I know he’s got all the right documents ready. Then, I turn to Snow again. 

“Unless you’re willing to accuse the defence of altering evidence, Mr Salisbury, I suggest that you let me finish this exhibit.” 

Snow shakes his head, then, his jaw clenched. “Please go on, Mr Pitch.” 

I turn back to the defendant, then, ignoring him. "Can you attest that the documents in question have not been altered, by you or by someone else with your consent, Mr Lamb?" 

Lamb is under a truth spell, as the witnesses usually are. He nods surely, his voice calm when he answers, "Yes, I confirm that. The documents weren't altered under my supervision." 

"Very well." I turn back to Athanasius. "What do you say, Your Honour? Do you admit these documents as evidence for the case?" 

He frowns at the papers. "Are you willing to submit these documents to magickal inspection, to make sure they haven't been altered, Mr Pitch?" 

"Yes." 

"Very well, then." 

I go back to my seat, asking only a couple more questions, and then the session is over. 

Snow keeps throwing me intense glances as we leave the courtroom. Niall is too involved talking to Lamb to notice, but I do. (I always notice Snow's eyes on me. In the court, I can practically feel them burning into my skull at all times.) 

He catches me in the entrance to the courtroom. 

“Hey.” I dodge his hand reaching for my elbow, taking advantage of my vampire reflexes. Snow huffs, jogging to keep up with me. _“Hey!_ Basil, I’m talking to you—”

I take a sharp turn, pulling him into an empty hallway with me. 

“Stop calling me that,” I hiss, letting myself watch his face closely in the dim light. He’s cross, as expected. “What do you want?” 

“I was just trying to congratulate you,” he says, though his tone suggests that’s far from genuine. “You’re doing a good job with this case, you know.” 

I scoff, looking around. A few people are still walking out of the courtroom, but overall, it’s fairly private. 

“That’s what I’m paid to _do_ ,” I say, sneering. “What else? Want to shake hands? This isn’t a football match, Snow.” It comes out too flirtatious for a conversation between rival attorneys just after an important trial, but oh well. 

His face breaks into a grin, slowly. “Down to Snow already?” 

I roll my eyes. “Pardon my slip, Mr Salisbury. That was inappropriate.” 

“No problem, Mr Pitch.” He takes a step closer, standing just an inch within my space. “I suppose you’ll be busy studying this case tonight.” 

“Not terribly busy,” I say, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Unlike you. You should really start building your case if you want to keep up with me, Salisbury.” 

I leave, then, not sparing him another glance. I don’t need to. The smell of smoke follows me down the corridor. 

I get in my car, driving straight to my flat. I glance at the rearview mirror occasionally, noticing the car following me after a while. Through sharp lefts and narrow rights, in the direction of my flat. It’s too dark to make out the model—or the driver—in the tiny mirror, even with my enhanced sight. 

**Simon**

Baz is right about this, because _of course_ he is. I should go home and spend the evening reading and rereading boring testimonies, comparing images from security cameras, trying to find as many clues and as many contradictions as I can among the proof I’ve already gathered. 

But… 

I can’t really imagine spending hours hate-reading Lamb’s testimony when I could be doing something much better. 

I’m weighing my options as I follow Baz’s car (unintentionally) down the street. We’re nearing the point where our paths diverge, leading me all the way across the city from him. 

_It’s a bad idea,_ Penelope’s voice supplies inside my head. A terrible one, really. But then again, isn't it always?

I follow Baz across the city. 

He lives in a nice neighborhood. I wait inside my car, outside his building, for a while, watching as he gets inside. He’s probably seen me by now, though he didn’t spare me a glance. 

His apartment is on the 4th floor—if I climb the stairs quickly enough, I might catch him getting off the lift. Though… 

There’s a much easier way to get up there. 

I roll my shoulders, taking a deep breath and focusing on the things I keep inside _—most of you is hidden all the time,_ I can almost hear Margaret’s voice saying in her unfathomable accent. Now, I allow one of those parts to unfurl, letting loose. 

I don't need to worry about being seen, even though there are some people on the street—a plus of being what I am, having the kind of magic I do. If I don't want people to see or pay attention to me, then they won't. 

There’s a _pop_ when a pair of red-leather wings bursts through my shirt. (The suit jacket is safely tucked in the backseat of my car.) Then, I leap into the air, my wings beating a couple of times, up and up until I reach his balcony. 

The window is open. 

**Baz**

A faint breeze shakes the living room’s curtains. It’s dark, save for a bit of light coming through the windows, just enough to illuminate the intruder. 

I've got my wand out and pointed at them before the lights flicker on. 

"Hey, it's just me!" Snow shouts, throwing his hands up. He's grinning, though. 

I sneer. "What are you doing here, you menace?!" 

He flops down onto my sofa, unceremoniously. I take him in—his shirt ripped at the back, his shoes somehow already discarded. He's taking off his socks now. "I just thought I would—" 

_"I_ thought you'd be busy tonight," I interrupt him, spelling his shoes away before he can make a mess of my living room. Snow frowns, sitting back. 

"Technically, I should be," He says. "But… well, I decided to give you an advantage." The grin comes back, lighting up his face. "Also, I wanted a distraction." 

I sneer, then, hanging my coat by the door and starting to undo my jacket buttons. "So you decided to break into my flat?" 

"I wanted to surprise you." 

"Very well, it worked," I say, sitting down by his side. "You almost gave me a heart attack and got yourself cursed, Salisbury."

He pulls a face. "Stop that _Salisbury_ shit. I'm not even wearing my suit." 

I laugh, breathily, leaning into him and reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "Can't make things that easy for you, can I?" I nuzzle at his cheek. 

"'Course not. It wouldn't be as fun." 

Then, he sneaks a hand around my neck and pulls me forward, his lips meeting mine halfway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here's the second chapter; sorry for the delay. I'm working on the next two chapters now, which shouldn't take long.   
> Enjoy!

**Baz**

I wake up five minutes before my alarm goes off. 

By my side, the mattress is still slightly dipped in the shape of another body, though its weight is already gone. So is the warmth. 

I lay here for a minute longer, listening for any sounds of another presence in the flat. There it is: frying pans and plates clinking, a hissing kettle, something falling to the ground. Someone swearing. 

He’s still here, then. 

I get up and step towards my wardrobe, tripping over a pile of trinkets on the way. Everything comes crashing down with a loud noise. 

I wince, reaching under my pillow for my wand. I cast  **As you were** , and the pile goes up again, rearranging itself neatly in an instant. Luckily, nothing seems to be broken. 

Simon turns and practically beams at me as I enter the kitchen, already half-dressed for work and wearing a sneer on my face. He’s standing by the oven, apparently preparing breakfast for us, that flimsy excuse of a tail he pops sometimes whipping behind him. (It’s cartoonish, more like a devil’s tail than a dragon’s, but Snow says it helps to let it out when he’s nervous). He frowns at me, then.

“Hey, what was that noise?” 

“I tripped over your pile of rubbish,” I say, leaning against the kitchen island. 

“Baz, you  _ know  _ I keep those things there,” he says.

“And I  _ told  _ you to keep your hoarding habits out of my space.” 

He pouts. “Those are all things I need while I’m  _ here.” _

“Are they?” I ask, tauntingly. I take the opportunity to hug him from behind. He sighs, leaning a bit against my chest and turning back to his task by the oven. 

I really shouldn’t do this, I know, but I’m too weak when it comes to Simon Snow. I just can’t keep my hands off him, no matter how miserable I'm going to feel later, after he's gone, and the reality of our lives comes crashing back down over me. 

For now, I have him here, in my arms, standing in my kitchen, and making my breakfast. He knows how I like my eggs, and he smiles at me over his shoulder. 

It all feels terribly domestic.

_ It’s a conflict of interest, innit? _ he said that first time. And I agreed. Then, I let it happen anyway. 

I thought I was mature enough to handle this kind of relationship. Maybe I  _ am,  _ just not when it comes to Simon Snow. 

(It wasn’t really clever of me, I must admit. Why did I think that having a purely physical relationship with the boy I’ve loved since I was twelve could end in anything but flames?) 

And look at us now. 

Not talking about it is the safe route, obviously. But sometimes it feels like… well. 

Like we're straying from the path. Like this relationship—or whatever it is—is becoming something it was never meant to be. Something with the potential to hurt us both. 

(Something  _ real.) _

And again, I'm not strong enough to stop it. Again, I let it happen.

“What are you doing, anyway?” I mumble, burying my nose in the crook of his neck.

Simon frowns. I can't resist the urge to kiss the crease between his eyebrows. “Breakfast?”

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own breakfast, Snow.” 

“I know. I just…” he shrugs. “Seeing you next to the burners makes me nervous.” 

I scoff, then, stepping away from him. “I’m an adult man, Snow. I can handle the oven without getting burned, thank you very much.” 

“You mean  _ without being reduced to ashes,  _ right? Because you’re also a vampire, so that’s what would happen.” 

I quirk an eyebrow at that, feeling my good mood vanish in an instant.  _ There it is.  _ The bitter reality; a swift reminder of the true nature of our relationship. Snow’s face turns apologetic, his mouth hanging open in a search for words that are bound to be inadequate. 

“Hey, Baz, I didn’t mean—” 

“It’s fine,” I snap, my voice suddenly ice cold. It was time I stripped off this feeling, anyway. We’ve both got a long day of work ahead; better start it with a clear head. 

I sit at the kitchen table, examining my nails nonchalantly. My hair is already slicked back, my tie perfectly tied. I just need to build up my cold demeanor and then I’m ready to go. 

Snow sits down before me a moment later, handing me my plate. Eggs, toast, a bit of bacon. Nothing I couldn’t make on my own. 

He eyes me with attentive, plain-blue eyes. I can feel myself softening despite my efforts. 

Fire. It’s a touchy subject for both of us. 

Because I’m a vampire. Because Snow is a bloody dragon. An uncareful huff in my direction, and he could set me alight quicker than I can shout  _ Objection! _

(There’s also the fact that we’re rival attorneys, and just being in this kitchen with him could ruin my case.) (My entire  _ career, _ for fuck’s sake.) 

“So, how’s the case?” Snow asks over a mouthful of toast. Crumbs come flying out of his mouth, and I’d be sneering if the question hadn’t stunned me out of words. 

“Going well." I don’t tell him about the new possible evidence I’ve found, nor about my meeting with a certain Wellbelove later today. We really  _ shouldn’t  _ be talking about this. "Better than yours, I reckon, considering I'm  _ actually _ dedicated to it.”

Snow starts to reply, but the words are cut short when he chokes. I wait with a blank face while he coughs, trying not to look like a lovesick moron for once in his presence. 

(It’s easier than usual, because there are more crumbs falling from his mouth.) 

“Right, first of all,” Snow starts, the cough finally subsiding, “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” 

_ “Of course _ I wouldn’t complain,” I scoff. “That was my plot all along, Snow. To seduce you, keeping you distracted from the case.” 

He frowns, and I wonder if I’ve finally gone too far, but then he chuckles. 

**Simon**

I can’t help the relief that floods me to hear Baz joking like this. So carefree. 

Talking about his job—and  _ my  _ job—always feels like walking on eggshells. More often than not, we just  _ don’t.  _ It's like Baz and I are totally different people outside the courtroom. Like we’re just… Simon and Baz, I guess. 

(We've worked together before, though. A few times. We don't talk about that, either.) 

These moments between us are few and far between. Moments of quiet contentment, just the two of us together, just breathing. Right now, eating. It feels precious. I don't want to ruin it. 

I don’t know why I asked. (Okay, I do actually, but now isn’t the best moment.) He was already in a weird mood after the oven thing, so I just had to go and give him a real reason to ignore me for the rest of the week. 

He doesn’t, though. His eyes just crinkle up when he smirks at his own joke, and it makes my heart lurch. It makes me bold—I let my foot brush his under the table, hooking it around his calf. 

We eat in silence for a while, and the words unsaid hang heavy in the air between us. I know he wants to say something because he keeps stealing glances at me, then looking up at the clock on the wall, but he never actually gets up to leave. (I know, for a fact, that he’s got places to be; places he should be heading to right now.) And he probably knows I want to say something because my pathetic tail is out and thrashing around me, swiping over his floor. 

(If Margaret could see me, she’d probably be pulling a face.) 

I need to do it, though. 

“So,” I start, cautiously, “how’s your client taking the process? He seemed really calm, yesterday.” 

He seems taken aback for a moment, schooling his expression to something colder. “Lamb knows he’s got nothing to worry about.” 

I snort. “Well, it’s your job to prove that, innit, mate?” 

Baz does something with his mouth, that expression of someone who’s tasted something bittersweet—half a grimace, half a scowl. I can tell he doesn't want to talk about this; still, I press on. 

“Anyway. You know him, right? Like, trust him?” 

“What are you on about, Snow?” Baz asks, all the good humour gone from his voice. 

“It’s just…” I hesitate. The look on his face tells me he really doesn’t want to know, but he should. “I’ve got a bad feeling about him.” 

Baz snorts, shaking his head. “A bad feeling? What, is that included in your deal of divine dragon powers?” he asks, and I grit my teeth.

Baz always goes for the lowest blow. He  _ knows _ I still don't have full control over my powers—that I'm just as much of a pathetic dragon as I used to be a pathetic Mage. 

(I don't even know if having some sort of magickal intuition is part of a dragon's power. It could be; Margaret always tells me to trust my instincts.)

"Maybe it is," I say. Baz scoffs. 

"Either way,” he counters, “I didn’t ask for your opinion. If I must remind you, this arrangement of ours is already precarious enough as is. Don’t shake it.” 

He gets up, then, rounding the table on the way to the sink. He grabs my plate as well. 

“I wasn't finished,” I say, clenching my jaw.  _ Rein it in, Simon. The smoke always makes everything worse.  _

“Actually, I think you should go,” he says, coolly, his back turned to me. 

I know what’s happening. Baz and I have gotten much better at handling the everlasting tension between us since our school years—most times, we just find another way to release it that doesn’t involve hurting or shouting at each other. Sometimes, though, when that’s impossible, distance is the best solution for us. 

I nod, trying not to let him see how much that affects me. 

Except, then, instead of letting go like I usually would, I turn back to him. “I was being serious. I just—are you sure about him—” 

“What’s gotten into you?” Baz interrupts me, cutlery clinking inside the sink. “He’s my _ client.  _ It’s not my job to question his morals outside of this case. A weak case, at that.” 

“I didn’t say anything about morals,” I shoot back, meeting his icy glare with a fiery one. “And the case stands until  _ you  _ prove otherwise.” 

“Well, yes, thank you for stating the obvious, _ Mr Salisbury.” _

I walk over to him, letting go of the door handle before it starts melting. I’m fuming, quite literally. 

“Why do you have to do this?” I ask. “We were having a civil conversation. We were having  _ breakfast!” _

“Because we really shouldn’t have any kind of conversation about these topics,” he says, using the same tone he uses in court. I take a deep breath, swallowing the fire that threatens to rise. “My personal relationship with Mr Lamb isn’t relevant to the case.” 

“So, it isn’t relevant to the case if you think he’s guilty or not?” 

He looks at me over one shoulder. “Precisely.” 

“Do you, though?” I ask, not giving him an instant to breathe. 

“Do I  _ what, _ Snow?” 

“Do you really think he’s innocent?” 

He scoffs. “Please remind me, Mr Salisbury: when was the last time I lost to  _ you  _ in court?” 

“It's like you said just yesterday, Pitch: this isn’t a football match,” I say, leaning close next to him. "It's about people's  _ lives; _ magickal or otherwise. About something that poses a threat to them."

He turns to me then, sharply. "That's what you think, isn't it? That just because there's a vampire club, obviously all the vampires are part of a plot to take down the Queen and drain every Normal in sight." 

"What?" I'm too stunned to even sound exasperated. "That's bollocks. I'm being serious, Baz; there are a  _ lot _ of vampires. Lamb can't possibly control all of them." 

He gives me a hard look. "Not all of them are monsters, you know." 

"I didn't—shit, that's not what I mean!" He looks at me again, and this time, that fierce look is gone from his face. There's only hurt left. I open my mouth, frantically looking for the right words. "You  _ know _ that's not—Baz. It's not personal, okay?" 

He smiles, then. It cuts through his expression forcibly. His cheeks look too full; his eyes, too bright. 

"Of course it isn't personal, Salisbury," he says, pushing past me—literally pushing me aside. "Nothing ever is between us." 

Then, before I can register it, he's got his overcoat on and a foot already out in the hallway. 

"See you in court," Baz says, slamming the door on his way out. 

I just stand there, listening while he stomps down the hallway, still processing my spectacular fuck up. 

**Baz**

It’s undignified to storm out of my own flat like this, but I couldn’t care less. Five more minutes standing there next to Snow, and I might have tried to throttle him. 

He doesn't get it.  _ Of course _ he doesn't. I know he's always been a moron, but I didn't expect— 

Well— 

I don't know what I expected. 

Ten years ago, Snow would have been slaying dark creatures without a second thought, whoever his old dickhead mentor pointed at with a scowl on his face, completely disregarding the weak laws that existed even then. I suppose I should consider it progress—now, he just prosecutes them, instead of going full-on supernova. 

(I'm being unfair to him, I know. He's come a long way since then, we both have.) (Still.) 

_ You're not a monster, _ he says. And I know I'm not—it took me a decade or so, but I'm starting to believe it. Which comes with the realisation that many of those people—whom Mages are used to calling  _ dark _ and  _ creatures— _ aren't, either. 

In fact, many of the vampires I've met—and represented—so far have backstories similar to my own. People who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who've had to endure malnourishment and hunger and marginalisation for  _ years. _

(They used to live  _ underground, _ for Crowley's sake.) 

Snow can't see that—he hasn't  _ seen _ that. He hasn't been there. 

I can't say I have, either. Because I was lucky enough to be born in an Old Family—because, despite being ashamed of my condition, my father stocked the woods of his properties for me and protected my secret until I decided to disclose it to the community. 

Because I am also a Mage. 

Not that the Mage community (or my own family) backed me up in any way when I revealed the true nature of my condition. I didn’t expect them to, but still, public reaction wasn’t as extreme as I had anticipated. No one dared to suggest that my fangs be pulled or my wand snapped. No doubt because of my name, and the legacy I carry, whether they like it or not. 

So, now, the least I can do is help those who weren't so lucky. 

Things have gotten a bit better since Lamb established himself here—he's got  _ vision, _ a better future in mind for the vampire community. He's never been an activist, but he's a man of action: he brought a concept to England; proved that it already worked well around the world—in Las Vegas, for example. 

If there's one thing that can be said about dragons, it's that, despite being overly arrogant creatures, they're extremely magnanimous. 

The Mage community wasn't happy when the new laws were approved. It's not like they could do much, though. It's been a long time since the magickal society was known as _the World of Mages._

The  _ Lamb's Blood _ has been up and running for six years, and Lamb is right: there haven't been any kind of mass murders or Turnings during its existence. 

No bloody stains in its brief history, until now. 

It’s a weak case, but I already knew that the Mages wouldn’t need much more to try to shut it down. It’s not like I can reason with Simon about that. He’s doing his job, and I’m doing mine, and that’s how things are. Besides, he doesn’t understand it, anyway. 

No. What I can do is take my distance from him and focus on the bloody case. 

Wellbelove is waiting for me at the foyer, looking at her phone and sipping from a cup of coffee (a habit she picked up in America, no doubt). The Magickal Forensics Institute is basically her second home—she’s here all the time, whenever I need an expert opinion on something. 

She looks up as I approach, frowning. “What’s that face?” 

I sneer, walking past her. “What? My _ ‘I’m the most successful attorney in this country’ _ face?”

“Your  _ ‘I just drank rat’s blood’ _ face,” she quips, not bothering to catch up to me. She knows I won’t be getting anywhere without her. 

I grimace. (Thankfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to drink rat’s blood.) “I don’t know what you’re getting on at, Wellbelove.” 

“It’s Simon, isn’t it?” 

It takes barely any effort to school my expression into neutrality these days. I’ve been practising for years. “It’s just the case, Agatha. Now, I believe you had something to show me?” 

We stop in front of the laboratory; her nest. She pushes past the door with the authority of someone who owns the place. (She does, in a way.) 

“I finally got the results of that substance found in the victim’s bloodstream,” she’s saying, looking through a folder someone left on her table. “We couldn’t get them ready for yesterday, but here they are now.” 

I nod. “Found anything interesting?” 

She hands me the folder, obviously stalling. “Take a look for yourself.” 

I frown, looking at the exam’s results. “Wellbelove, I went to _Law school._ I don’t know what any of these things mean.” 

She sighs, crossing her arms. “You know that, technically, I shouldn’t be telling you this, right?  _ Simon  _ asked me to examine that substance. The results are one of the prosecution’s exhibits.” 

“Why are you showing me this, then?” I hiss, practically tossing the documents back at her. (If anyone even suspects I touched them, I could be accused of attempting to alter the proof.) 

Wellbelove usually avoids getting between Simon and I when we face each other in court. She also never sides with any of us; if we need her help, she does it impartially. This is different, though. 

“Merlin, your  _ mood  _ today,” she groans, bending down to pick up the scattered papers. “I just wanted to give you a warning, Basilton. So that you’d be prepared when Simon shows up with this tomorrow.” 

I stare at her, feeling the little blood I have retreat from my face. “It’s vampire venom, isn’t it? The substance they found in her blood.” 

Wellbelove grins at me, crossing her arms slowly. “Well, that’s the interesting part: it  _ isn’t.” _

I stare at her, blankly. “What.” 

“You heard me right.” She moves around the room, towards the white board against one of the walls. It’s covered in a series of annotations. She wipes it clean, talking over her shoulder. “There are components of vampire venom; anticoagulants, endorphins, stimulants. It’s not the same, though.” 

“What is it?” 

She shrugs. “We don’t know.” 

I’m still frowning. “Why is it important, then?” 

“Because,” Wellbelove scoffs, “it isn’t like any substance I’ve ever seen. It’s… weird. Definitely not produced by vampires, though, so it should help you.” 

I nod, thinking. It could help—how much, though, I'm not entirely sure. After all, to some people, something that has 70% of the components of vampire venom is as good as the venom itself. 

"There's more," Wellbelove says, snapping me out of my thoughts. 

"More?" 

"Yes. This is why I called you here in the first place, actually." She shows me another folder, taking a series of photographs—from the most recent crime scene, I realise—and pinning them on the board. "It's a bit embarrassing for the whole department, to be honest. Such lame work…" she clicks her tongue, lining the pictures in front of me. 

I frown. "What is lame?" 

"The forensics team," she says. "Honestly, if I had been there, this would have never happened." 

"Can you go straight to the point, please?" I ask, starting to get annoyed. 

"Right. Take a close look at these pictures, please," she says, turning to me with her hands on her hips. 

I huff. I don't  _ need _ to; Snow has been rubbing these pictures on my face non-stop from the moment they were taken.  _ "Injuries on the neck," _ he kept repeating to anyone who would listen.  _ "Just like a vampire, don't you think?" _

I have no patience for this today. 

"What should I be looking for, exactly?" 

"... Don't you think it seems a bit  _ off?" _ She inquires, lifting both eyebrows, expectantly. 

"It's a corpse, Wellbelove. Tell me what  _ isn't _ off about it." 

She huffs, rolling her eyes, obviously disappointed in me. "Right. Here; look at the pattern of the bruises." 

I look. It's… well. I'd rather not have to keep looking for much longer. 

"Hm." 

"Now look at the blood splattered around her." Wellbelove traces the scene with her fingertips, and I press my lips in a thin line to avoid grimacing. 

"Right. What about it?" 

"It makes no sense!" She says, though her tone is too cheerful, considering what she's saying. "See? The angles are all wrong. It's  _ obvious; _ if the forensics team hadn't completely rushed the process, they'd have noticed it in an instant." 

I frown. "So you're telling me there was an error?" 

"Precisely. Not only that, but also—" she points at the pictures again, "this is not your crime scene." 

I let that sink in. "...Oh." 

"Yeah," she agrees. "This woman was killed somewhere else, and then whoever did it dumped the body there." 

"So… someone killed her, obviously trying to make it look like a vampire did it," I say, processing. "They used some kind of substance that resembles vampire venom, and left her body next to a vampire club…" 

Wellbelove smiles. "Bingo." 

"Do you think it was all orchestrated?" I feel suddenly anxious. This could ruin Simon's case. If I could prove all of this, it would be over for him. 

She just shrugs. "I don't know, but it made me wonder—if we have a fake crime scene, what about the  _ others?" _

"And did you find something?" I ask. 

"Well, yes. I'd say this one is an exception, though, because it's really obvious, like the job was rushed. But there are little inconsistencies in the past cases as well. If you could ask for a re-examination, I'm sure they'd find something more concrete." 

I consider that. I could easily win this case. But then… 

I can't stop thinking about it—the possibility of someone forging crime scenes and letting the blame fall on the vampire community. Is it a direct attack to them? Or is it impersonal; someone just using the vampires as a scapegoat? 

I don't get to voice any of those thoughts, because then, someone else barges into the laboratory. 

I turn, startled, almost expecting it to be Simon, pointing a finger at my chest and accusing me of trying to steal his evidence. (Or maybe complaining because I cut his breakfast short.) 

But it's not him. It's just one of Wellbelove's colleagues, a woman in her late twenties. She grins at me, cheerfully. 

"Hi!" Bright eyes greet me. "Do I know you? Hey, Ags, who's this?" 

I turn to Agatha, who's currently frantically pulling the photographs off the board, trying to cover them as best as she can. 

"Ginger! My dear, I thought you'd be at the clinic today." She shoves everything back into her folder, not caring that the pictures are now all crumpled. "This is my friend, Basil." And then, turning to me and gesturing to the woman with a flourish: "Baz, this is my flatmate, Ginger." 

The woman—Ginger—smiles widely at me, her eyes crinkling up. She's got brown skin, covered in freckles, and her accent is definitely american. "Oh! I've heard about you. You're a lawyer, right?" 

I look back at Wellbelove, trying to gauge how much this figure knows about me. She moves her mouth widely, silently, and not discreetly:  _ N-O-R-M-A-L _ . 

Right. Best not to mention the fact that I'm the only (and illustrious, dare I say) vampire attorney in this country, and the only one who also advocates for vampires and other creatures deemed dark. 

"I am," is all I say instead. She nods, looking impressed enough. 

"Cool! What's your specialty?" 

I shrug. "Hopeless cases, I think."  _ For the longest time, I've been one. _ But I keep that part to myself. (I'm not one to reminisce about those years, and I definitely don't want to talk about them with a stranger.) "Usually, I get the cases no one else wants." 

She's still nodding, and Wellbelove is still trying to put the pictures away. But she's clumsy in her frenzy, something that rarely happens. 

One of the pictures slips from her grip, floating to ground and sliding to Ginger's feet. 

She crouches down to retrieve it, and freezes in place. 

Not everyone has the guts to confront this kind of scene. Still, her reaction isn't what I expected. 

Ginger covers her mouth, horrified, a choked sob escaping her lips. "Oh my god." She looks up at us, horrified. "Oh god, I—I know her!" 

_ "Fuck," _ Wellbelove mutters, at the same time I blurt "Did you?" We exchange a glance, surprised. 

Ginger is openly sobbing now, her eyes filling with tears. I think she's in shock.

"Ginger," I take a step closer to her, touching her shoulder lightly. "Did you know Evelyn Bailey?" 

She nods. "S-she was a volunteer at the clinic. I'm—I'm an intern there." 

"When was the last time you saw her?" I ask, ignoring Wellbelove's wide, frantic eyes. 

"I don't know!" The girl practically shouts. "Oh my god, she's dead. I can't believe—I talked to her! When did she die? I'm sure I-I talked to her t-this week!" 

I sigh, patting her back awkwardly. Wellbelove takes the picture from her hands, gently, setting it aside and pulling Ginger into a hug. 

"It's okay, dear," she says, caressing the woman's hair as she sobs into her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. I'm sorry. We don't need to talk about this now." She gives me a hard look, then, but before I can object, Ginger turns to me again. 

"It was Friday night," she says between sobs. "T-the last time we... talked. I didn't see her, but she messaged me." She looks into the void for a moment. I'm about to ask for more details when she breaks in another series of hopeless sobs:  _ "And I didn't even answer her! _ And now she's dead!" 

Wellbelove continues hugging her (and glaring daggers at me over her shoulder), while I stand there, helpless. 

I go to fetch a cup of water for Ginger, and when I come back, she's still sobbing quietly. We wait while she drinks. 

"Ginger," I start, as soon as she seems to have calmed down. "Evelyn's body was found—" 

Agatha cuts me off. "Gee, we're trying to figure out who did this to Evelyn. Do you think you can help?" 

She shrugs. "I d-don't know. I—oh god…" More tears roll down, silently. 

After a few minutes, Ginger takes a deep breath, sipping more water. "Right. How can I help?" 

I nod, starting over. "You've told us she messaged you on Friday night. The next morning, she was... found. We don't know where she went that night—she wasn't kidnapped, she wasn't with her family, friends or co-workers. But maybe you can help us fill that gap." 

She nods, wiping at her face, resolutely. "Right. I think, um… she was going to work? But like, not actual work. She's a volunteer at the NowNext." 

I frown, looking over at Wellbelove. She shrugs. "Is that the clinic you're working at?" 

"Yes. I'm an intern there." She seems a bit calmer now. Good. "Have you never heard about it? The NowNext is an innovative group—" (Wellbelove grunts, rolling her eyes), "—dedicated to, like, studies on biogenetic technology. It's really cool. Evelyn was so excited… most people wait for months on their volunteer queue." 

I frown. This is starting to get interesting. "They're so eager to volunteer for what, exactly?" 

She shrugs. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you. Most of it is confidential. But I can say it has to do with a new kind of technology they're experimenting with." 

I hum. "And what do you think she was doing there so late at night?" 

She shrugs again. "I don't know. Sometimes they call the volunteers there at odd hours." 

"Can you give me some kind of address, or their business number, maybe?" 

Her eyes widen. "Oh! Of course—here's their business card." 

I nod, examining the rectangle of paper she's fished out of her purse. Wellbelove is still drawing soothing circles on her back, looking away. 

"Thank you, Ginger," I say, honestly. "You don't know just how much you've helped us." 

She nods, giving us a small smile. "I'm glad I could." 

Later, after she's gone, I look at Wellbelove, confused. "Is it common for Normals to just come wandering in?" 

She shrugs it off, dismissively. "Our wards usually keep them away." 

_ "Usually?" _

"Yeah, well." She bites the inside of her cheek, nervously. "I _might_ have spelled Ginger. So that she's immune to them, you know." 

"And why would you do that, Wellbelove?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow at her. 

She shrugs again. "Because she's my friend. Also, she lives with me, so it's less suspicious if she knows where to find me." She's looking down, now. I hum. 

"But she doesn't know about magic," I say. 

"She thinks I work for the government," Agatha says, laughing a bit. "Some sort of secret project. Like Area 51. Her words, not mine," she amends quickly, before I can make any witty remarks. 

"Fine," I say. "I guess there's no reason to report her, then."

Wellbelove nods, nonchalantly, but thanks to my enhanced hearing, I catch the soft sigh of relief she lets out. 

"Anyway," she turns to me again, "why are you so interested in the NowNext? Ginger literally never shuts up about it." 

I shrug, still staring at the card Ginger gave me. I'm free this afternoon. "It's just a feeling." I grin to myself. I don't have dragon powers, but right now, I may have a clue. "Don't you feel it, Wellbelove? Maybe I'm onto something." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! (And the boys don't talk lol)  
> You can find me on Tumblr at [nightimedreamersworld!](https://nightimedreamersworld.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Long time no see!   
> First of all, I'd like to apologise for taking forever to update this. (Can't believe it's been a month, I'm so sorry!) What happened: I got some dates mixed up in my head, and so school came back two weeks earlier than I expected. And it's been draining, so I haven't been having much time to write lately. 
> 
> I was sitting on this chapter because I didn't want to post it before the next one was done, but here it is now.   
> The final chapter is about halfway done, and I'm hoping to post it sometime this week, but... In case that doesn't happen:   
> 🚨 WARNING:🚨 This is a cliffhanger zone! Please proceed cautiously!

**Simon**

I'm about ready to bash my head against the table, but I don't, because Maggie is right there and she doesn't approve of self-flagellation. 

Every single piece of evidence we gathered has led to a dead end. Our clues are completely fruitless. We've spent the whole day—and a good chunk of the afternoon—looking for something that'd give us a direction, an _answer._

Penelope's eyes shine and she keeps nodding eagerly, going over each of our arguments again and again, hoping that the Dragoness can help us find something we've been overlooking, the detail that's missing. 

Nothing clicks into place. 

It makes no sense. There's a period of time in which the victim seemed to just _vanish._ She wasn't anywhere she should be, and we can't prove she was anywhere _near_ the club. To be quite frank, Baz might be right about the weakness of our case. 

I finish reading the results of the test Agatha sent me—a substance they found in the victim's bloodstream. 

A substance that _isn't_ vampire venom. 

A traitorous part of me is relieved. Once again, the brilliant Baz Pitch is right: the victim wasn't at the club that night, we can't prove she was anywhere near it, and now, on top of everything, we've the confirmation that whoever did this isn't even a bloody vampire. 

I groan, letting my forehead fall onto the table. 

I hear Margaret clicking her tongue, her footsteps approaching my table, and then she's got a finger under my chin, lifting my head up. 

"Keep head up, hatchling," she says, but she doesn't sound disappointed, not in the slightest. She never does. Not in the way Davy used to sound. 

So I do. I straighten up in my seat as she settles in front of me, examining the documents I was reading. 

"Interesting," Maggie says, reading it over my shoulder. "Not vampire?" 

"Yeah, it wasn't a vampire" I say. "Now we're back to square one." 

"No such thing as square one," she says, solemnly. "Now, you know something you didn't before. Must decide how to use this information." 

I nod, watching as she walks to sit at her desk. (We're at her office—it's a spacious room, with tall windows providing a perfect view of the hills outside.) 

Margaret's human form looks both young and old at the same time, in a way that usually makes Normals' heads spin. She's got long hair, completely white, and her fingers and wrists are adorned with all kinds of rings and bracelets, plus a miscellany of necklaces around her neck. It's a way of showing status.

(Dragons don't usually boast about their hoards of treasure. They're just too… _protective_ when it comes to that kind of thing.) 

And Margaret _does_ have status. Aside from being one of the oldest, long-awake dragons, she's also the Dean of students at the British University of Magicks. 

She's bloody _brilliant._

Maggie always sees the connections no one else sees, and pays attention to the details that usually go unnoticed. Before being the Dean, she directed the University's Law department, and before that, she was a renowned judge. 

She's also the one who took me in when I was lacking direction, purpose. The first to realise what I was, and the one to teach me everything I needed to know about my dragon heritage. 

With her help, things started to make sense. My magic never worked like it was supposed to because I was trying to use it in a way that fitted the Mages’ standards—I finally understood why I could never cast with a wand, why my skin felt so tight all the time. 

Maggie says I'm a lost hatchling. Some dragons are born from golden eggs, and some are born in human form. Both work as a shell for us, and one day, they crack.

(I still don't know how to feel about this—the idea that one day I'll just… crack my human form. It hasn't happened yet; I can pop a pair of wings sometimes, and the tail comes whenever I'm anxious. But I've never turned fully into my dragon form.) (My _true_ form.) 

As an immortal being, she's patient, and also surprisingly easy to please. (Except, maybe, when it comes to my tail.) 

Either way, she just tells me to keep trying, to look at things from different angles, and to never give up. She's encouraging in a way that doesn't feel like pushing. Sometimes, I feel overcome with a kind of affection I never thought I'd get to feel. 

I sigh, still staring at the test results. "What do you think is going on here, Maggie?" 

She looks through one of the windows, contemplative. "Trust your scales, my boy. What do they say?" 

I resist the urge to sigh again. I know she doesn't mean my literal scales—as for the moment, I have none. 

But I do have a feeling about this case—about Lamb, especially. Usually, I trust Baz's judgement. I do my job and he does his, so I don't have to worry about possibly convicting someone innocent. No one can best Baz in court, not even me, no matter how hard I _try._

Winning isn't the point, though. Getting to the real culprit is more important. 

This time, losing feels like letting something dangerous slip right through my fingers. 

There's something rotten about Lamb, though I still haven't been able to prove it. 

I feel it in my gut, in my _scales._ However many of them I've got hidden under my skin. 

We're starting to pack things up for today. Penelope and I are still going to collect some more testimonies from the victim's co-workers, though I'm sure they will be useless as well. 

I'm at my wit's end. 

We're heading out of the main University building when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I check it, and there's a message from... Baz's number?

 _T. B. Grimm-Pitch : _ _Does the word NowNext mean anything to you?_

 _Simon Salisbury :_ **_Baz?_**

_T. B. Grimm-Pitch : _ _Does it?_

 _Simon Salisbury : _ **_No. Why should it?_**

 _T. B. Grimm-Pitch : _ _That's what you should find out._

 _T. B. Grimm-Pitch : _ _It might be useful information._

I almost drop my phone. Penelope shoots me a curious look, but I shrug it off. 

She's driving on our way back to London, so I take my time thinking. I didn't think—well, after this morning, I didn't _expect—_

Baz and I don't do things like this; giving away possible clues so carelessly. We've worked together a few times before—mutually helping each other outside the court.

(It's much better than working against him, if I'm being honest.) 

The only time we've ever been on the same side—actually working together—was almost a decade ago, back at Watford. 

Everything started to change, then. 

Everything’s been changing for a long time, now. 

He's still cross with me, probably, so I don't see why he'd just give me important information right now. _If_ this even means anything. He could be trying to throw me off. He could— 

I take a deep breath, shaking my head. This is _Baz._ He's ruthless, yeah, but he doesn't play dirty. 

"Hey, Pen," I start. "What are we going to do now?" 

She shrugs. "I was thinking, maybe we should pay Agatha a visit. I want to take a look at the victim's belongings." 

"Yeah," I mumble, absentmindedly. It's just occurred to me that I've heard—or seen—that word before. NowNext. I bet it's some kind of private company. "Let's talk to her." 

**Baz**

Snow doesn't reply to my texts. He rarely does; I suppose he's busy trying to figure out where the clue leads. (Though sometimes I still wonder if he's going to think I'm trying to sabotage him or something of the like. I don't put it past him.) 

Either way, I tried. Snow can't accuse me of holding onto possible evidence. 

It would benefit us both if he looked it up, though. From the looks of this place, we're going to need a warrant, and Snow always gets them with astounding efficiency. (I bet it's dragon privilege.)

I look up at the entrance of the building. This is a reconnaissance mission: I doubt I can really find anything useful without legal intervention, but at least I can gauge the situation before Snow comes barging in. 

It's modern, somewhat minimalist. Whites and greys and soft beiges decor the foyer, and the receptionist smiles up at me when I stride through the double doors. 

There's something off about this place. I can feel it immediately, though I can't point out _what_ it is. 

There's not much to find out about _NowNext Biotics_ on the internet. Most of their business seems to be confidential; I'm still not positive on what kind of service or products they offer. 

(My first guess was cosmetics—nothing about it on their website, though I still haven't discarded the possibility.)

So far, this whole business remains a mystery.

I approach the receptionist, who keeps looking at me curiously. "Good afternoon," she starts, her voice high. "How can I help you?"

"Hello," I start, looking around cautiously. "I would like your help, yes. How can I learn more about your volunteer program?" 

Her eyebrows raise, and she looks me up and down. "Oh! Of course. So, you're interested in the project?" I don't miss the way she leans further over the desk, smiling wider. 

I smile back, politely. "Yes. I have a friend who works here—she told me a bit about it, " I explain, sticking to vague statements. The receptionist doesn't seem to find that odd. 

She's nodding. "That's awesome! We have a tour through the clinic in a few minutes, if you don't mind the wait." 

I shake my head. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. Where should I wait?" 

She leads me to another room, smaller, with comfortable chairs and sofas. There are more people here—young men and women, well dressed and cool looking. They all turn to look at me for a moment, some lingering. Weighing me up. 

I wait next to the door, trying to figure out what's so off-putting about this place. Maybe it's the fact that everything about it goes unsaid. No one asks for details, no one gives details. I couldn't find anything beforehand, and even here, it feels like each of these people knows something I don't—but it's never said aloud. 

It's like the whole room is holding its breath, waiting to see who will break the silence first. Who will cave. 

We wait for a couple of minutes before another woman comes to fetch us. 

"First of all, I'm glad you all have taken interest in our project," she says, guiding us through a long hallway. "The NowNext has been dedicated to innovative research on the biogenetic field since 2015, when it started as a small startup company in the silicon valley," she goes on while I try to avoid rolling my eyes and instead look minimally interested. 

From outside, it's obvious that the building is large, with a modern facade, and it's served as their headquarters in London for the past three years. There are four floors, though only the first two are included in our “ _tour”._

I still haven't quite grasped the purpose of all this, and the endless talking doesn't reveal as much as I'd have expected. 

I follow the group around the building, peeking into rooms on our way. Everything seems normal, except for the persistent secretive atmosphere. And I still haven't figured out what, exactly, is going on in the laboratories in the upper floors. 

It's clear that I won't discover anything useful on this tour, so, I take the first opportunity to slip away from the group, lurking around for a minute until I find what's probably the staff stairs. 

I climb up quickly to the third floor, finding more corridors (empty) and rooms (most of them locked). 

However, not all of the rooms are vacant. 

I stop dead in my tracks, looking through one of the square glass windows on the door to one room. There's a girl inside, laying on a bed, her eyes closed. I can hear a series of beeps and clicks coming from the devices surrounding her, monitoring her health. She’s on a drip. 

I frown, wondering if she’s one of their volunteers. Is this what that means? When Wellbelove referred to this place as a clinic, this isn’t what crossed my mind. 

I test the door. Locked, obviously. I try again, applying just a bit of vampire strength, but still it doesn’t budge. I look around, worried the noise might have caught someone’s attention, when there’s movement inside the room. 

I look through the small window again, and this time, the girl is awake. She looks up at me with scared eyes. I freeze, noticing the sharp points poking at her lower lip. _Too long teeth._

What in Morgana’s name is happening here?

I crane my neck, trying to get a better view of the room. Only then I realise that the girl’s wrists are tied to the bed. 

I’m not breathing. 

She’s too weak to do much more than move her mouth, though. Her eyes are already closing again. Her fingers spasm, hands struggling against her restraints for a moment, and then she’s out cold. 

I don’t think twice before sliding my wand down my shirt sleeve, a spell already forming on my tongue. I point it at the door, but— 

Steps down the corridor. I take a sharp breath, tucking my wand back into its compartment, and hurrying back to lean against one of the walls flanking one of the empty rooms. 

“Mr Pitch,” says the same woman from earlier, the guide. She has a curious smile, though her eyes aren’t especially kind. “Why did you leave your group? What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, well,” I start, trying to think of something convincing. Hopefully, she’ll be too focused on getting me out of here—away from whatever incriminating secret awaits down the corridor. “I’m sorry, but I must admit I was getting bored. I wanted to see what it’s actually like to participate…” 

I slowly trail off. The woman gives me a knowing, sly smile. Just now my brain is catching up with the situation—she called me _Pitch._

I keep my hands close to my body, letting my wand slide down to my palm again, discreetly. “How do you know my name?” 

She laughs,showing her too-white teeth. “You are quite known around here, Mr Pitch. I know some people who can’t wait to meet you.”

I take a cautious step back, my eyes fixed on her. She doesn’t move a muscle, still smiling. 

My mind is racing. Her scent...Everyone smells like something distinct. Not her, though. Now, I understand what felt so _off_ about all of this. She’s too sharp: her movements, her smile; to the point where everything is almost artificial. 

Because it is, I suppose. 

She’s dead. The smell of blood in her is faint. 

I move fast, so fast a Normal wouldn’t be able to process the movement before I reached the end of the corridor. She moves faster, somehow; when I realise it, she’s stood in my way, tripping me. 

I try to dodge her, but again, she’s too fast, so instead I try to use blunt force. I push her against the wall, letting myself use every ounce of my vampire strength. The wall cracks behind her, though she doesn’t seem bothered. 

She’s on me again in an instant, but I’m faster this time: I cast a **Stand your ground** on her. 

Somehow, despite being frozen in the middle a kick probably aimed at my crotch, she’s still smiling. It’s unnerving. 

“Who do you work for?” I hiss. 

“The NowNext,” she says through her teeth. 

“What _is_ this place?” 

“You will understand everything very soon.” 

I huff, frustrated. I can hear more footsteps approaching, so I run in the opposite direction. 

I sprint down the long corridor, looking for another door. Instead, I find more locked rooms with square windows. 

I can't help but look through each of them, my horror increasing each time: aside from the vampire (?) in the first room, I also find a pixie (surrounded by glitter), a goblin (the green skin is hard to mistake) and others. Creatures, most of them unconscious and more often than not, tied to noisy devices. 

Finally, I find another door at the end of the corridor—a new flight of stairs leading up, to the last floor. I look back, hearing the approaching footsteps, before launching myself through it, and up the stairs.

The only way to go is up. 

I grab my phone, quickly dialing Simon's number. 

It rings, and _rings._ Finally, it goes to voicemail. 

Fuck.

"Sim—" 

A hand closes around my wrist, forcefully, and I drop my phone. I hear a cracking sound as someone throws me against the wall, hitting it headfirst— 

The world blinks out. 

**Simon**

There wasn’t much found with the victim in terms of belongings, which probably convinced the Normal authorities that this was just an extreme case of mugging. 

Penelope is right, though: in the other cases, there was never anything missing but a mobile phone. This time, it was different. 

Agatha stares at us as Penny and I bend over the evidence spread on her table, twirling her hair around one finger nonchalantly. A mobile is the first thing they examine; and everything here must have been examined at least a dozen times. 

I pick up the victim’s phone; it was broken, almost completely destroyed when they found it, but the magickal forensics crew fixed it. I turn to Penny. 

“What if we take a look at her texts?” 

“We already did,” Agatha answers instead. “We literally dissected this thing, Simon. I’m not sure what you expect to find.” 

“Something that will give us a clue, obviously. Are you sure they checked everything? Even the deleted texts?” 

Penny’s head whips up at that. “Simon, you do know that using magic to retrieve deleted texts is illegal, right?” 

“Is it?” I frown. Shit. “I might have dozed off during that class.” Extremely unlikely. I _never_ dozed off during classes. I was probably just staring at Baz.

Penelope doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she just rolls her eyes.

“You can probably do it,” Agatha counters, “but I’m not sure it will be accepted in court, so.” 

“No, it is _literally_ illegal,” Penny says. I huff. 

“What, then? What if we’re missing something useful?” 

“Then we find another way to get the information,” she says, like it’s simple. 

“We don’t have time. The trial is literally tomorrow, and we have nothing! This case is in shambles!” 

“For you, maybe,” Agatha says. “I think Basil is doing quite alright.” 

Baz. Of course. I narrow my eyes at her. “Have you seen Basilton recently?” 

Agatha shrugs, looking into her now empty (coffee?) cup longingly. “He came here this morning. You know I can never get a long enough break from you two.” 

“Oh. Right,” I nod, thinking. I can feel Penelope staring at me and silently begging me not to make this about Baz. Little does she know it’s already too late. 

I wonder how Baz got the NowNext clue, and what it means. I could ask Agatha, I suppose; more often than not, the clues we both have come from her. 

(She made some sort of vow, I think, to avoid getting in between us, no favouritism shown to either part.) (Sometimes I suspect she favours Baz anyway, but I have yet to prove that.) 

Except I can’t really think of a way to ask without raising questions about how _I_ got the information. Agatha can play double agent all she wants, but Baz and I need to keep up a facade. 

“So,” I start, dropping the subject and ignoring Penny’s sigh of relief, “what do we do, then?” 

We look down at the device in my hand again. 

“We could look at the texts that weren’t deleted,” Penny says. 

“I already told you they found nothing there,” Agatha singsongs, and I fight the urge to mess with my hair, lest it give Penelope another reason to scold me.

(She’s my best friend. I swear we get along ninety percent of the time. She’s just insufferable about rules and etiquette and whatnot, especially during big cases. Says that we represent the prosecution, thus we have an image to uphold.) 

“Look, Penny, don’t you think any important text—and I actually mean _incriminating—_ would be deleted? It makes no sense to even delete something if it isn’t worth trying to hide.” 

She scoffs. “Simon, that’s assuming the crime was _premeditated,_ and that’s not what we’re dealing with.” 

“Well, maybe we could find out where the victim was going that night.” 

“Again, assuming premeditation. Otherwise, what need there would be to delete the texts? Simon, let’s face it: the only thing we’ll probably find is a bunch of pictures of her naked, and I don’t need to see that.” 

Agatha snorts. “Your lack of imagination is showing, Pen.” 

“You’re right. It’s probably much worse, and I’ll be scarred for the rest of my _life.”_

“Don’t worry about that,” Agatha waves her hand dismissively. “I can wipe it from your memory if you need it.” 

“Hold on,” I interrupt them. “Penny, what if you’re right? _What if—”_

“We’re intruding on someone’s sex life?” 

“No! What if it was premeditated?” 

They stare at me for a beat, then at each other. Finally, Penelope speaks. “You think… a vampire planned these crimes?” 

“I mean, well—I don’t know.” I frown. In fact, I did build this case based on the assumption that the murders were committed by vampires out of control. “I’d never really considered this possibility, but…” 

“But Simon, nothing about these murders indicates premeditation,” Agatha chimes in, shaking her head. “The victims weren’t even fully drained–” 

“Because that would be too obvious–” 

“–And besides, the injuries aren’t even compatible with vampire bites. Not even a thirsty vampire would do that.” 

“Maybe they were completely out of control!” I argue. “Maybe it was someone so lost to bloodlust, they went mad with it.”

“And you think any vampire at that point of madness would be able to plan something like this?” Agatha asks. I pause. 

“She’s right,” Penny says, fidgeting with her purple ring. “But it doesn’t mean you’re wrong, Simon. Maybe a vampire did this, and someone else is covering for them." 

It feels like a lightbulb going off over my head. "Lamb." 

"Maybe not," Penny says, crossing her arms.

The grin spreading over my face falters. "It makes perfect sense!" 

"Yes, but we mustn't draw conclusions based on _speculation,"_ she says. 

I look at Agatha for help, but she's already agreeing with Penelope.

"You can't be serious," I say. "All the evidence we need is right _here."_ I wave the victim's phone right before their faces. "Everything makes sense, now. We just need to get the texts to prove that Lamb has been covering the murders for months!" 

Penelope rubs her forehead, looking tired. "We already talked about this."

"Yeah," I retort, "and I still think we should give it a go." 

“I agree,” Agatha says, taking us both by surprise. “Even if you can’t use any of it in court, it might at least tell you if you're on the right track." 

“Fine,” Penny concedes. “But I’m not going to cast the spell.” 

Agatha shrugs, turning away for a moment to grab her wand.

It’s extremely difficult to cast spells correctly on electronic devices, no one really knows why. Magic already interferes with the transmissions, and when you cast on them, it will most likely go wonky. 

The only spells that seem to work are the most literal ones, or phrases that are commonly associated with technology. Agatha specialised in them after she graduated Uni. 

Now, she casts **Backup memory** on the phone, and we watch as the deleted texts roll up the screen. 

To my surprise, there isn’t only one, but two whole conversations deleted. One is with an unknown number, and the other is with a contact saved as “Ginger <3” 

Agatha frowns, examining it. “Oh, I think I forgot to mention something.” 

Penny and I frown at her. She goes on, opening the chat. "Ginger is my flatmate. She knew the victim from some sort of volunteer program." 

"What?" I exclaim, my jaw dropping. "Why didn't you tell me before?! That's exactly the kind of lead we needed!" 

"Oops," Agatha says, giving me a toothy grin. "I just forgot to mention. Also, I didn't even know until this morning. We found out by accident." 

_"We?"_ Penny chimes in, narrowing her eyes. "You and who?" 

"That part's irrelevant," she answers, dismissively. "There. This is what I know: Ginger worked with Evelyn in some kind of ultra-secret program, and the victim texted her that night.' 

I'm about to start smoking, though this time it's because the gears frantically turning in my head are overheating. I pry the mobile off Agatha's hand, reading the last texts the victim sent to this Ginger. 

At first inspection, the texts don't seem useful, or even incriminating in any way. There are just a few of them, left on read, sent around 11pm. I have no idea why they were deleted. 

_Hey, are u at the clinic tonight?_

_Braden wants me to go, but it's so late_

_Gee??_

_Ok nvm_

I frown, going back to her contacts' list and opening the chat with the unknown number. Penelope and Agatha crowd around my shoulders, peeking down at the texts. 

Again, everything's oddly out of context and too vague to be a real clue. They talk about some kind of clinic again—the place where Evelyn secretly worked at, I suppose. 

There's a sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind. I turn to Agatha. "Do you know where they work together? Or the victim worked, I suppose." 

She shrugs. "It's a company called NowNext, I think. If you want my opinion, it's more like a cult. I'm almost sure they're doing illegal experiments, like human cloning." 

Penelope snorts while I fake a cough to hide my surprise. 

"Right," I say, nodding. "So, this… yeah, right." I whip out my phone, dialing Baz's number on autopilot. "... Where is that, exactly?" 

"I can call Ginger and ask her for more details, if you want," Agatha says, eyeing me suspiciously. 

"Do that," I say. "Oh, and tell her I want her as a witness." 

Penelope frowns. "Si, are you sure we can include a new witness this late? I mean, the next trial is tomorrow; we can't just show up with her at the last minute." 

"We can," I tell her, "if we add her to our witness list right now." 

They both nod, and Penny pulls out her own phone to call someone. I excuse myself, but stop at the door. 

"Hey, Pen?" She looks up at me. "Call Judge Athanasius while you're at it, yeah? We're going to need a warrant." 

She hesitates. "Simon, we definitely won't get a warrant issued before tomorrow's trial." 

"I know." 

I slip out into the corridor, calling Baz. 

"C'mon, pick up," I mutter to myself. He doesn't. I call again, and it goes straight to voicemail, every time. 

I scowl at my phone. Then, I notice something: a notification for a missed call. From Baz. 

He tried to call me, and now he won't pick up my calls. What the fuck is going on? 

I try again.

"C'mon, you prick, just pick it up." I start pacing. Is he still cross with me? Maybe he called by accident. Maybe he regrets giving me that clue, but it doesn't matter anymore. 

I've found the thread, and now I know where it leads. 

**Baz**

I wake up in the dark, so impenetrable my enhanced eyesight can't make out a thing. I'm restrained—my hands are tied to a rather soft surface, but the restraints don't budge against my force. Whoever did this is knows how to contain a vampire. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

The clinic. The creatures, the— 

The— 

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. My head throbs slightly, but I think that's it. I just breathe for a few instants, trying to assess my own body. No dizziness, no numbness, so maybe I haven't been drugged. 

Then, suddenly, the absolute dark bursts with light; I squint, my head hurting even more. It was a _blindfold._

"Hello!" says a cheerful voice, which I soon find belongs to a man wearing glasses and a too-bright smile, too forced. "My name is Braden, and I'm beyond pleased to finally get to meet you, Mr Pitch." 

He holds out a hand, apparently ignoring the fact that both of mine are tied up. 

"What. The. Fuck." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll do my best to update this ASAP!   
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr at [nightimedreamersworld.](https://nightimedreamersworld.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter should be going up sometime this week (hopefully!!)  
> Special thanks: to [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) for being a lovely beta!! (And for putting up with my late night titling crisis lol)  
> Find me on Tumblr at  
> [nightimedreamersworld](https://nightimedreamersworld.tumblr.com/)


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